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Another
day, sometime later, I stood at an overlook at Mesa Verde and gazed
down into the Mancos Valley. The fields lay silent and white far below
and a wave of clouds swept over the wall of the La Plata Mountains.
Fingers of snow trailed from the dark underside of the wave and drifted
slowly downward into so many places that I knew. I remembered that this
overlook was where I went when I fell into my first job as a Ranger
here, my first park of five. I looked down into the valley, digesting
the news and trying to make sense of it all. Since then, I have gone to
that overlook whenever I need to reflect and contemplate. I thought of
how the clock was slowly ticking and how I would soon be back in my
village. In a few weeks, it will feel as if it were all a dream, which
is how it feels to be here at all.
I
stand here with a foot in each reality, the old and the new, trying to
make sense of each. Sometimes, as I walk down the streets of Durango,
it feels as if I am viewing everything through a thick sheet of glass;
that my surroundings are a display of some kind and not real at all. I
find myself speaking very little about Morocco, unless pressed; talk of
my other reality doesn't feel like it belongs here. It seems out of
place and unnatural. My time here is a strange kind of limbo, and while
I enjoy being with my family and friends, I don't
tell you a story if you look long enough.
I
closed my eyes and thought of the myriad of experiences I had had in
this place; they flashed past in my mind's eye vibrant and full of
life—a series of moments crystallized and preserved to remind me of who
I am and where I come from. In these memories I am standing at the top
of the Moki Dugway looking at the red lands that stretch away into
infinity, or maybe at the bottom of nameless canyon listening to the
cascading song of the Canyon Wren as a sun-dagger slowly climbs the
opposite wall. Be it the dry and blasted expanses of the red deserts or
the nodding summer flowers and shining snowfields high in the summer
mountains. Every moment spent immersed in this place reminds me of the
ever-strengthening bond that ties me to it. Though I return to Morocco,
I feel that I am more a part of the southwest than ever before and,
when I return again, it will be to stay.
A
second farewell to my family and friends, another goodbye to the
mountains and the desert beneath their blanket of fresh snow, stepping
back into my current life after a snapshot of the life I had left
behind almost a year ago. Once again I am alone and left to my own
thoughts and devices.
After
12 hours in the air, I am in another limbo, and I write as I sit in a
coffee shop in Frankfurt, waiting for my connection to Casablanca. I
rode the train from the airport, watching the bare winter-forest flash
past, trying not to nod off from the jet lag seeping into my bones.
Later I watched the flooded River Rhine rush beneath the old stone
bridges and listened to the church bells as they rang from innumerable
steeples and spires throughout the city. I found myself comfortable in
this city and, though a language barrier is still present, I did not
notice it. Navigating the unknown becomes easier and easier and I look
forward to my return to my village in the Atlas.
"The
views and opinions expressed in this article are solely those of the
author and do not refect the views or opinions of the U.S. Government"
CHARLIE KOLB is
almost a native Coloradan,and has worked as a seasonal ranger for the
National Park Service, but will be working with the Peace Corps until
2012.
The Zephyr looks forward to sharing-regular reports from Charlie.
You can also follow him via his blogs:
feel
like I belong here either. I am not finished with Morocco yet, and it
is not finished with me. I don't attempt to reconcile these two
opposing worlds because I am not yet at a point that I need to. I have
sixteen months remaining in my village in the Atlas; I will deal with
it after that.
Toward
the end of my time in the Southwest, I drove slowly through the little
town of Bluff, Utah; a place to which I would love to eventually
relocate permanently. Every tree and building was familiar, though the
cottonwoods were bare and the fields were fallow, the red and white
cliffs still rose blazing about the muddy San Juan, and ravens still
called from the power poles overhead. Later, sitting in my favorite
cafe, I listened to the mingled conversations in English and Navajo at
nearby tables. It is a place where I always feel strongly connected to
the Southwest and can clearly hear its heartbeat.
I
listened to the mingled conversations in English and Navajo at nearby
tables. It is a place where I always feel strongly connected to the
Southwest and can clearly hear its heartbeat.
I
drove through the notch into Comb Wash and looked northward at the
stately march of the monocline toward the Abajo Mountains and at the
canyons of Cedar Mesa emptied into the stream that lay frozen at my
feet. I could smell the strong scent of sage and chamisa, along with
the smoky smell of Tamarisk and the flinty aroma of wet sand. All
around me were the tracks of animals that had sought water in the wash;
every place will
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